Page 27 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

The pinch is so vicious, I’m pretty sure she just removed a chunk of my flesh with her fingernails. I half expect to see blood.

Our eyes meet. For a second, something flashes on Chase’s face.

Confusion?

Lust?

The beginning stages of food poisoning?

We let go of each other faster than you can say “flustered.” I’m slightly wobbly, feeling like I just got off a roller coaster. My side hurts, my heart’s racing, and I have the strangest urge to hug her again.

“Now, this is the Jack and Jill–style bathroom,” Mom chirps, gesturing dramatically as though she’s showcasing a luxury spa. “Nolan’s room is on the other side of that door.”

Dad clears his throat. “Sorry, the door’s a bit jiggly.”

“You mean the lock that’s been broken for twenty years?” I jest.

“And I’m gonna fix it,” Dad justifies. “One of these days.”

Mom’s face suddenly lights up. “Douggie, go grab our special gifts for them!”

“Oh, you didn’t have to get me anything,” Chase says, her expression showing she’d rather take a bullet than accept a gift from my parents.

“Well, shucks, I know I don’t have to. I love to,” Mom replies, glowing.

“Gift-giving is my mama’s love language,” I say and then whisper to my mock girlfriend, “Mine’s physical touch, in case you were wondering.”

My lips brush against her ear, and once again, a little tingle catches me off guard. My eyes linger on the curve of her neck, the gentle fall of her hair, and the way her chest rises and falls with every breath.

Mom interrupts my gaze, bouncing with excitement. “And I’ve got an even bigger surprise for you guys tomorrow!”

Dad returns, arms laden with two gift boxes. Before he can hand them to us, Mom can’t stop herself from squealing, “They’re Christmas jammies!”

“Let’s all put on our holiday PJs and wear them to dinner!” Dad suggests, his enthusiasm rivaling a kid on Christmas morning. “Your mom made Bubbles his own sweater this year!”

“Ethan, we’re having breakfast for dinner,” Mom adds. “Your favorite!”

I glance at Chase, who's teetering on the edge of an implosion.

“That all sounds fun. But can you give us a minute to settle in? We’ll be right out after we catch a quick rest.”

Mom pulls me into another hug. “We are so tickled pink that you’re home!”

The moment the door closes, Chase, a tiny, furious tornado, whirls on me. “Ground rules, now!” she snaps. “I need to be told before you’re going to film. Before you touch me—”

“Nah, that ain’t gonna fly. My family is always around. Am I supposed to say, ‘Hey, Mama, this may sound weird, but my girlfriend likes me getting permission before I put my hands on her body.’”

“Ugh, fine. I get your point. But when we are filming, you need to warn me. You can’t just sneak attack me with the camera.”

“Sorry, no can do, buttercup. I’m an artist. Inspiration strikes when it strikes.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she accuses, her eyes blazing.

“More than Buddy the Elf loves syrup.”

Chase’s eyes narrow to slits. “The bed is mine. You can sleep in the bathtub for all I care.”

“Nice try, sweetheart. Despite this being my time off, you’re expecting me to be camera ready twenty-four-seven. And this mug”—I point to my face—“needs its beauty sleep to keep lookin’ this good. You can have the floor. I’ll even throw in my SpongeBob pillow.”

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